


Convalescence

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Multi, Other, Reader-Insert, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: You’re sick. Steve and Bucky make for two very different types of caretakers.





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Fluff, Reader’s gender is not defined but ‘sweetheart’ is used as an endearment, vaguely hinted grossness from being sick (but note: I’m an emetophobe so when I say vague I mean vague)
> 
> A/N: I’m a sucker for caretaking fics. This one is short but sweet; please enjoy.

 

Aches and pains: check.

Sore throat: check.

Coughing up stuff you’d rather not know exist: check.

The feeling that your head is so full it’s going to implode: check.

Being sick fucking _sucks_.

You turn on your other side, just trying to find a little bit of comfort, and immediately succumb to a coughing fit that makes you turn right back over so you can get at the trash can.

Yeah, being sick fucking sucks. Being sick while Steve and Bucky are both away on different missions is a…mixed bag. On one hand, you get double the misery because there’s always a constant fear when your significant others are in danger, no matter how capable they are.

On the other hand: you’re gross and feel absolutely terrible, so it’s probably a good thing they aren’t here to see you in all your sickly glory.

On the other _other_ hand, you’re lonely and could really use a hug right now. Preferably two.

The bed dips behind you at the same time as an arm slides over your side and you jolt. You would jump but your body has apparently given up completely. At this point you can’t blame it.

“It’s me,” Steve whispers and kisses your neck. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry; you didn’t.” You stifle a coughing fit _mostly_ successfully. And while you try not to, you do snuggle back into him. Just for a moment. “Not that I’m trying to banish you, but you might prefer the couch tonight.”

“You don’t sound so good.” Steve rubs your stomach and it feels almost _too_ good. If he keeps being so gentle you’re not sure you’re going to let him leave. “How long have you been sick?”

“Couple days.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Um…”

Steve chuckles. “We’ll go tomorrow then.” He nestles in and he’s so warm and, despite all his solid lines, soft. “And don’t worry,” he whispers. “I can’t get sick.”

Lucky bastard. “I’m still gross,” you say even as you hold his arm in place.

“I don’t care.”

“I’m always coughing. You’ll get no sleep.”

“I had a nap on the ride home.”

“I’m really, really, _really_ cranky.”

“Business as usual then?”

You actually lift your heavy, pained head, take your pillow, and hit him with it. Not hard– even that small act makes you breathe heavy, cough, breathe heavy, cough, lather, rinse, incessant repeat. “We’ll see how ‘not sick’ you can get.” You cough some more. “Enjoy my germs, jerkwad.” You cough harder, longer, and end with a whimper at the burning in your throat.

“Easy,” Steve says, feeds you some water, and replaces your pillow. By the time you lie back down you’re _exhausted_.

“When’s Bucky coming home?” you ask as Steve curls around you again.

“Not for a few days at least,” Steve says. He’s moving the base of his palm over the center of your chest in a firm, small circle that has no business feeling as good as it does. “You’re lucky– I’m not nearly as much of a mother hen as he is. You have some time to get better.”

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll go to the damn doctor,” you grumble and shut your eyes.

“It’s for your own good,” Steve says as you drift off.

 

So, the next day, you go to the doctor and behave appropriately. Mostly, but aside from one stern look and an overdramatic eyeroll, Steve doesn’t seem to have many complaints. You get some medicine and by afternoon you are feeling a little better; enough even to sit at the table and eat some soup.

The door opens in the midst of your meal. “Surprise,” Bucky says tiredly and walks in, but he drops his bag and smiles at you and Steve. Even the _feeling_ of excitement at seeing him home safe and sound makes you start to cough. You hunch over your bowl and try to hide it while Steve goes to welcome your boyfriend home. Even Steve’s kiss, though, does not distract Bucky from you for long. He says your name and you manage a smile for him.

His eyes narrow and he takes in the sight of you and everything in your immediate area. “You’re _sick_.”

The way he says it makes you, inexplicably, think he would punch the illness itself if he could. “I’m a lot better,” you say, but you know you don’t sound great.

“Right,” he says, audibly disbelieving. He looks at you sternly. “You finish that, take a shower, and dress for bed. Then we’re gonna work on that congestion, okay?”

“I got medici– okay.” The look on his face tells you that was not a rhetorical question. Good to know. He nods, then relaxes his posture and comes over to kiss your head. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” he says and you lean into him. “We’re gonna get you better. Now eat your soup.”

When he goes to put his stuff in the bedroom, Steve leans over and whispers, “If you see him go for the dry mustard, _run_.”

You roll your eyes and go back to eating. But when Bucky comes back and starts banging around in the kitchen, you feel worry start to creep in. Worry becomes a siren when he slams a cupboard shut and says, “Hey Stevie! Don’t we have cod liver oil somewhere?”

You choke on a noodle and Steve snorts because he’s a _dick_. But he does hit your back to help dislodge your airway. “Uh–”

“Ah forget it; I gotta pick up a few things,” Bucky says and grabs his keys from the hall table. He points at you. “Food, shower, bed.”

He’s gone before you can get a word out. Afterwards, though…

“Steve?”

“Yeah sweetheart?”

“He knows that cod liver oil comes in capsule form now, right?”

Steve pauses a moment. “Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “ _I_ didn’t know that.”

You whimper.

Being sick fucking _sucks_.


End file.
